Grace Among Thieves

by Julie Hyzy

  “Not the filming,” Bennett said, crashing my hopes to avoid the subject. “Hillary.”

  I glanced down again. Bennett’s forty-six-year-old stepdaughter, whose sole ambition seemed to be to convince the world she hadn’t yet seen thirty-five, smiled as she eased closer to Corbin. With a lovely, if tightly preserved face, and a petite, well-maintained figure, Hillary was—on paper, at least—a catch. That is, until she opened her mouth and her personality spewed forth.

  Even from our vantage point I could spot the glint in her eyes and the flirtatious pitch of her hip. “Is that why she’s back?” I asked quietly. “She intends to be part of the DVD, doesn’t she? I haven’t had a chance to talk with her since she arrived.” Truth was, I’d gone out of my way to avoid talking with the woman.

  I’d heard, from my nosy assistant, Frances, that Bennett’s stepdaughter had returned because she’d been dumped yet again, and I wasn’t in the mood for another one of Hillary’s “woe is me” sagas. Although I’d had my own share of romantic disappointments in recent years, I wasn’t interested in a pity party. It wouldn’t do either of us any good.

  Time and again, suitors fawned over her, eager to pamper, eager to please. Then, when they discovered that she wasn’t heir to the Marshfield billions it was hasta la vista, baby. Rather than count her blessings for being rid of leeches, Hillary harped at Bennett, urging him to change his will and leave Marshfield to her.

  Why she would want a husband who only loved her for her money was beyond me.

  Below us, she laughed delicately and found reason to touch Corbin on his hand, his arm, his shoulder. Best of all, she didn’t notice us watching her little performance.

  She took a predatory step closer and Corbin again stepped back. He swung a pained, guilty look all around, as though expecting a surveillance camera to capture this little tableau.

  Instead he found us. Was that relief on his face? Or panic?

  Bennett waved. Corbin blushed, raising a hand in return greeting. Spotting us watching, Hillary’s animated expression fell flat.

  “I suppose we should get down there,” I said.

  Bennett gave a snort. “Let her squirm. She’s embarrassed now, and she should be. She’s getting too old for such silliness. I should have clamped down harder on her when she was younger . . .”

  He let the thought hang, but I knew what he was thinking. He’d often lamented the fact that his second wife had shunted him aside when it came to parenting. I knew he regretted not being a stronger influence on Hillary’s life.

  “All I am to her now is a bank account,” he said.

  “She respects you. In fact, I think she’s a little afraid of you, too.”

  He gave a sad smile. “That’s something, I suppose.” He rested his arms on the gallery railing—an elegantly carved waist-high wall of stone—and folded his hands. Extending his two index fingers in Hillary’s direction, he said, “I want to thank you for your discretion, but I also want you to know that I’m fully aware.”

  I leaned on the railing next to him, the walkie-talkie in my skirt pocket making a muffled thump against the low wall. “You lost me. Aware of what?”

  “Don’t play dumb.” His gaze swept the room, neatly avoiding eye contact. “You know I’m talking about the recent thefts.”

  “Ah,” I said. Several items of great value had gone missing: a jewel-encrusted brush, mirror, and comb set from Bennett’s mother’s former dressing room; two signed first-edition books from the main library; and a small gold picture frame. What bothered me most was that the frame had held a photo of Bennett as a toddler. That was the real crime. A piece of Bennett’s history was gone. Probably forever.

  He went on, “I’m painfully aware that our losses began shortly after Hillary came to visit. And yet you haven’t mentioned your suspicions.”

  “I never—”

  “You never said anything,” he finished. “But you thought it.” He glanced at me sideways, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t you?”

  My turn to squirm.

  “Stop trying to come up with a politically correct response, Gracie.”

  I smiled. “You know me too well.”

  “Hillary’s financial troubles are getting worse,” he went on, “and it would be just like her to ‘borrow’ an item or two and think nothing of it.”

  I’d been afraid of that, but I couldn’t help trying to put a Pollyanna spin on this difficult situation. “Corbin and his crew have been here as long as Hillary has. They started filming the interior shots the same day she arrived.”

  “There’s one major difference.” I knew what it was, but I let him continue. “Terrence has had security accompanying the film crew every step of the way.” His voice rose as he threw his hand outward. “As opposed to Hillary, who has the run of the place.”

  She must have heard her name because her attention snapped back up to us, her eyes narrowing. I waved again, in a “We’ll be there in a moment” gesture.

  After the most recent item went missing, Terrence and I had decided to limit filming to non-visitor hours. Corbin hadn’t been thrilled, but we hadn’t suffered any losses under the new schedule. I hesitated to mention this because Hillary had been a constant presence throughout the process. When the timing shifted to six in the morning, Hillary stopped hanging around the film crew. And the thefts had ceased.

  I waited, but Bennett didn’t seem at all ready to leave his perch.

  I studied his profile. “What else is bothering you?”

  The lines in his face tightened. “It’s not only the stealing,” he said. “Yes, I’m upset about that, and yes, I want it stopped. But the truth is, I can afford these losses. What I can’t abide is the fact that she can do this to me. When she wants money, she calls me Daddy, and when my back is turned, she steals.”

  “You’re assuming she’s guilty.”

  He didn’t turn. “Who else could it be?”

  “I’ll do my best to find out.” Patting his arm, I straightened. “Let’s get down there.”

  He still didn’t budge. “There’s something else I wanted to talk about.”

  Uh-oh. I returned to leaning on the railing. “About Hillary?”

  Bennett inhaled deeply through his nose. “About Jack.”

  My stomach dropped and I felt my face flush. “Our landscape architect?”

  Again Bennett shot me a sideways glance. “No need to be coy with me. He’s far more to you than simply a consultant.” He shifted to look me straight in the eye. “At least he was. He hasn’t been around much lately. In fact, Davey tells me that Jack—”

  “Speaking of Davey, how is he working out?”

  “Bringing him on was a good decision,” Bennett said, graciously allowing the change of subject. “Most of my other assistants are getting up there in years. They don’t have the energy to get things done the way Davey does.” Warming to the topic, his face relaxed. “In some ways, he’s become my own personal concierge. Good for me because then I’m not overtaxing my aging butlers. Good for him because the job changes by the minute. He’s actually very adept at organization.”

  “Your other assistants don’t resent him?”

  “On the contrary, they’re relieved. They prefer keeping to what they know: serving meals, tidying rooms, and ensuring my clothing is clean and pressed. They don’t like to surf the Internet, investigate e-readers, or set up a new DVR.” Bennett gave a low chuckle. “And up until a few weeks ago, I didn’t know what half of those contraptions were. Thanks to Davey, I not only understand them, I enjoy them. Davey is a godsend,” he said. “But we were talking about Jack.”

  “No,” I said gently, “you were talking about Jack.”

  “Ah. Is that your polite way of telling the old man to keep his nose out of your business?” He asked it with a smile but I could tell I’d hurt his feelings.

  “Not at all.” The last thing I wanted to do was wound Bennett. “Truth is, there’s nothing to tell. I mean, you’re right. I did think that we . .
. I mean, I originally believed that . . .” I struggled to put into words what I’d thought—what I’d been so sure of. How differently things seemed to be working out.

  I tried again. “Jack has practically disappeared from my life since . . .” I shook my head. “I mean, he stops in at my office now and then, but . . .” Words failed me. “I can’t blame him,” I finally blurted. “I had a lot to do with hurting his family.”

  “The hurt was there. It was not your fault.” This time Bennett patted my arm. “Because of you they can finally face the truth and begin to heal. Give Jack time.”

  I forced a laugh to lighten the mood. “Well that’s easy enough to do. It’s not like I have men lining up to ask me out.”

  “That’s because you spend all your time here. You need a vacation.”

  I smiled. “I haven’t been employed here long enough.”

  “Well then, maybe you should take a working trip. I’m overdue for an excursion myself. There are always treasures to be uncovered in distant lands, right?” He straightened. “That’s it! An ideal solution. When this filming is over and Corbin packs up, let’s talk about a trip overseas.”

  “You and I? Together?”

  “As long as you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in the company of an old man.”

  “Old man? Who else are you intending to invite along?”

  He smirked at my flattery but seemed energized by the idea. “Wonderful. We’ll make plans. I think it’s what we both need. There’s been far too much trouble around here lately. And you need to meet an eligible bachelor or two.”

  “You just advised me to give Jack time.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a little competition. Makes the win even sweeter.”

  “I don’t know, Bennett—”

  He held a finger to his lips, letting me know the subject was closed for now. “Let’s go down,” he said, “before Hillary steals anything else.”

  Chapter 2

  “CORBIN!” BENNETT’S VOICE BOOMED AND echoed in the cavernous space as we made our way to the far side of the banquet hall. “How is the project going?”

  “Right on schedule.” Corbin raised both fists in the air, and grinned widely. “Couldn’t be better.”

  I liked Corbin, but it had taken me a while to get used to that wacky smile of his. I’d come to realize that despite the fact that all his front teeth showed at once—stretching his face far more tightly than it was meant to—his expression of glee wasn’t as forced as it first appeared. A personal quirk. Part of his charm.

  And charming he was. A bundle of energy, the sixty-three-year-old director sported gray hair, which fell to his collar, and a small diamond stud in one ear.

  Bennett wore a deadpan expression. “I see you’ve met my stepdaughter.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” Hillary sidled up to grip his arm. “Corbin and I are good friends. You know that. I told you how excited I am to be working with him. And since he’s been here we’ve gotten to know each other very well.”

  Corbin raised a hand, as though to correct her, then changed his mind and ran it through his hair. “Really, Ms. Singletary, we’ve only talked a few times . . .”

  Still holding Bennett’s arm with one hand, she raised the index finger of the other and wagged it at Corbin. “Silly boy. You know to call me Hillary.”

  She waited for acknowledgment, but he kept mum.

  Thrown off by this, Hillary’s coquettish demeanor disintegrated. An over-the-hill girly performance like the one she’d attempted required an audience. Without one, Hillary resembled an awkward teen trying to fit in. Not quite the youthful glow she was going for. In an obvious attempt to regain control, she widened her perfect smile and pulled Bennett closer, still addressing Corbin. “You need to understand that Papa Bennett can be forgetful sometimes. It’s a good thing I’m here to remind him.” She used both hands to squeeze Bennett’s arm. “Isn’t it, Daddy?”

  “I don’t forget nearly as much as you wish I would.” Bennett extricated himself from her grasp and stepped closer to Corbin. Towering over the director, he arched an eyebrow. “You are respecting boundaries here at Marshfield.” It wasn’t a question. And from the rumbling timbre of Bennett’s voice, it was clear he wasn’t referring only to his rooms.

  “Of course,” Corbin stammered.

  I felt sorry for the man. Seeking to break the tension, I cleared my throat. “What’s next?” I asked. “That is, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  Gratitude washed across his face. “As I was just about to tell Ms. Singletary . . .” I noted how he inched away even farther from her. Chalk one up for Corbin. “Our next segment will feature the antiques we identified for inclusion in the DVD. Thank you, Ms. Wheaton, for the historical material you provided. We’ll be focusing on these, recording voiceover performances of your write-ups. And if there’s time, we’ll get started on our final segment of filming: the main rooms and your personal message, Mr. Marshfield.”

  “I’d like to come tomorrow,” I said.

  Hillary looked aghast. “To do what?”

  This was the part I’d been looking most forward to. I wanted to hear how all the information I’d provided would sound when brought to life by professional actors. “I’m particularly interested in seeing how the history is handled.” To Corbin, I said, “It may be helpful for me to be here in case there are any questions. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? That’s wonderful. Having you available to share your expertise will be of invaluable service. Thank you.”

  Hillary frowned. To Corbin, she said, “You know, I’ve done modeling work in the past. I’d be a great spokesperson. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Ah . . .” Corbin bit his lower lip. “We hired talent to do voiceovers. Male.”

  Hillary wasn’t about to let a chance at stardom slip through her fingers. “Don’t you think it would be so much warmer, so much more inviting, to have an actual family member hosting the program?”

  “Unfortunately, we already have an actor to narrate. He’s done much of the overview and we’re more than halfway through the project.” Corbin’s gaze shifted from me to Bennett and back to me again, clearly looking for support. “Remember the plan I presented? The contract you signed? Switching gears now, this far into filming, would be a nightmare.”

  Corbin’s pain was evident. As was Bennett’s amusement. He must have taken pity on the director, however, because he ended the man’s misery with a swift proclamation. “You will continue as planned. No changes at this late stage.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “Let the man mind his job. And you mind yours.” Bennett affected a thoughtful look, tapping fingers to his forehead. “Ah, that forgetfulness you mentioned earlier. Remind me, Hillary, what exactly is it you do for a living?”

  She bit the insides of her cheeks, deepening her marionette lines. All of a sudden she looked every inch her real age. “I’m going through a difficult time right now. A little sympathy would be nice.” She flung a hand out toward Corbin. “Not to mention a chance to help promote our beautiful home. I’m just trying to help.”

  Bennett was spared having to reply by the unmistakable sound of a crowd approaching: late-day visitors, probably a tour group. Amid shuffling and murmured conversation, I heard a considerate but commanding voice urging people to keep moving.

  Corbin excused himself. “Much to do before we return.” To me, he said, “See you tomorrow.” As he departed I realized I’d forgotten to ask about accommodations for his crew. I knew there had been a mix-up. I’d have to remember to ask him about it next time I saw him.

  At that moment about forty tourists, ranging in age from twenty to seventy-five, came around the corner a moment later. They shuffled forward, their attention rapt on their guide, John Kitts. I’d met John a couple of times. Nice man. Tall, late fifties, with gray hair turning white at the crown, he had a ruddy complexion and a warm smile.

  Employed by a big-name travel company, John led we
eklong tours of the mid-Atlantic region, most of which involved a day trip here to Marshfield. Articulate, efficient, and kind, he was good-looking in an older man sort of way.

  I knew John liked to bring his new group in for a sneak peek on the afternoon before the official visit, and I stepped aside as he walked backward toward us, describing the banquet room and talking a little bit about Marshfield’s annual Christmas display which, he promised, would be worth a future trip.

  “The last time children celebrated Christmas here at Marshfield Manor was when the current owner, Bennett Marshfield, was a boy.” At that he glanced back, smiling when he saw me. I watched surprise come over his features when he spotted Bennett next to me.

  He raised an eyebrow in question. I nudged Bennett and quietly asked, “Is it okay if he points you out?”

  Bennett gave a resigned shrug. I turned back to John and nodded.

  “This is our lucky day,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “May I present the owner of Marshfield Manor, Bennett Marshfield.”

  “Good afternoon,” Bennett said to the crowd. As much as he preferred anonymity among strangers, he seemed to brighten as the small crowd reacted with awe.

  Amid their murmured acknowledgments, John went on, “And, next to him, the woman who keeps the mansion running smoothly, Grace Wheaton. Under her guidance, the Marshfield experience has been getting better every day.”

  I blushed, but didn’t have time to respond. Hillary edged past me and addressed John, even as she kept her eyes on the audience, slipping into performance mode as easily as she might don a neck scarf. “I hate to correct you in front of all these nice people, but you are mistaken on one count at least. I was a child here for many Christmases. Not all that long ago.”

  Not that long ago? I waited for Hillary’s nose to sprout like Pinocchio’s, but it remained pert and cute and small.

  John coughed. “Of course. Everyone, allow me to present Hillary Singletary, Mr. Marshfield’s niece.”